Free Bellows Falls by Archer Mayor

Padget?”
    “We’ve never met, no. Is Mrs. Bouch around?”
    “Yeah, sure. Follow me.”
    He led me through a series of rooms in total tumult—clothes and toys on the floor, cheap furniture pushed helter-skelter, bare sheetrock walls with holes in them. There was an odor throughout of cat litter, stale sweat, and old food. I had been in more homes like this than I could possibly count.
    We headed toward a crescendo of young screaming voices and finally entered a kitchen where a woman was standing surrounded by five children, all clamoring for a box of doughnuts she was holding above her head. The kitchen table was strewn with dirty dishes, spilled milk, and scattered clots of soft, indistinguishable food. The remains of breakfast cereal crunched underfoot.
    “For Christ’s sake,” Norm muttered. Wading into the fray, he snatched the box from his wife’s hands, walked to the back door, and threw it out into the yard. The kids vanished in a stampede, leaving silence and wreckage behind. Jan Bouch stayed rooted in place, her hand still held high, as if baffled by what had happened.
    Norm returned and steered her toward one of the chairs near the table in the room’s center. “Sit down—the man’s got some questions.” His manner toward her wasn’t brutal or threatening—it had the same condescending gentility I might have used on a pet dog.
    Jan Bouch had a lean, tired face framed in lank, unwashed blond hair. She looked much older than her eighteen years. Her movements were doll-like, her reactions slow and mechanical, and her eyes seemed unfocused. I had serious doubts her own breakfast had been chemical-free.
    “Mr. Bouch,” I began, “I wonder if I might talk to your wife alone to begin with.”
    She looked up at him, seeking guidance. He merely shook his head, the protective man of the family. “No. You got questions, you ask both of us.” He then cracked a broad smile, reminding me of the genial good-ol’-boy I’d been hearing about. “But no need to be uncomfortable. Take a seat. You want some coffee?”
    I turned down the coffee, but I couldn’t argue about his presence. I pulled out a seat, wiped the milk off it with a stray napkin, and sat opposite Jan. I placed the recorder on the table between us.
    “What’s that?” Norm asked, his voice flattening. “You tapin’ this?”
    “Just so there’re no misunderstandings. We want everything aboveboard.”
    He sat close to his wife, who immediately slipped her arm through his, a gesture he ignored. “Okay—that’s fair by me.”
    “Mrs. Bouch,” I asked, “would you tell me in your own words the grievance you have against Officer Padget?”
    Jan Bouch kept her eyes glued to the tabletop. “He’s been bothering me.”
    “In what way?”
    “He follows me when I go out, stares at me… ” Her voice trailed off.
    “Would you say he’s stalking you?”
    A small furrow appeared between her eyes. “I guess so.”
    “Why do the allegations specify sexual harassment?”
    “He
is
harassing me.”
    “He’s been telling her to dump me,” Norm said sorrowfully. “Telling her she’s wasting her talents. That she’s got great tits, and that he’d really know how to give her a good time.”
    I kept my eyes on Jan as he spoke. She looked like she was experiencing a physical pain, deep down. “When did he say this to you—exactly.”
    “On the street, last week.”
    “When last week, Mrs. Bouch? Did anyone else hear him address you?”
    Again, she glanced furtively at her husband, who seemed stumped this time. “What does it matter?” he joked. “Do
you
run around with a pad, writing down when people say stuff to you?”
    It dawned on me then why they’d chosen sexual harassment over stalking, a weightier allegation. Stalking takes time to establish, often a prior history of the two parties being involved, and it calls into play more times for which corroborating witnesses might be located. Sexual harassment, especially involving a